Sorry
by TheWildHeffernan
Summary: Sherlock just played a practical joke, and doesn't understand why John doesn't like it. John thinks Sherlock is should be sorry... and maybe he is. John P.O.V. No slash. T for language, just in case.


221b, 3:00

Oh, and by the way, that's 3:00 in the morning. Now, I was in the army. I can deal with exhaustion. I can deal with noise. But I certainly don't _want_ to. And not because my stupid, childish, emotionally challenged, brilliant, psychotic roommate won't put away his violin. It's the fifth night in a row where I've gone to bed leaving him in the sitting room in front of his music stand, and he's been sitting there the next morning.

Of course, I'm worried about him. He doesn't sleep much (or eat much, or bathe much) on a regular basis. This, however, was ridiculous. Sherlock was actually beginning to show signs of wear. I had asked him to sleep. I'd ordered him. I'd begged him. I tried bribing him. I asked him why. He gave the answer I should have been able to predict by now.

"Sleeping is boring. Besides, what can I accomplish lying on a bed, unconscious?" I gave up and went to bed.

However, after five nights of this my main concern was my sanity. I can't sleep any better then the next man, listening to awkward violin cords and worrying that Sherlock would keel over in the middle of a street. I was ready for measures to suit the desperate times.

I'd prepared a syringe of morphine and other sedatives, taking into careful consideration the resistance I'm sure he's built up by now. I wanted him out cold- just for a few hours, mind you, enough time for the both of us to rest. I managed to leave work without any strange questions, telling myself I would only use it if this behavior continued. It did, of course.

I crept downstairs, syringe in hand. He was facing the window. I padded into the room. He was either ignoring me or too intent on his thoughts to notice. I jabbed the needle into his upper arm, depressing the plunger before he could react. He yelped in a very un-Sherlock-ish manner, and the bow scraped painfully to a sudden stop. He spun wildly around, grabbing me by the collar of my pajamas with his free hand.

"John Watson, what did you just do?" He looked angry. Hurt. I grabbed the violin before he dropped it, and easily uncurled the slacking fingers from me.

"It was morphine. Just a little." A lot of a little. "You need the sleep. C'mon, let's get you off to bed." He took a couple steps, looking more foggily annoyed then furious, now. He then tripped over the coffee table and spread-eagled on the floor. I rolled him over onto his back. His eyelids were fluttering, and I hardly recognized him for the goofy grin on his face.

"Sherlock, let's go, get up. Mrs. Hudson will have a heart attack if she comes up and sees you on the floor." No response. He was dead to the world. I nudged him with my foot a couple times, and then gave up. That was quicker then I expected. I threw his dressing gown over him and went upstairs.

I had a great sleep that night, and didn't get out of bed until nearly 11:00. I came downstairs ready to deal with a very angry Sherlock over breakfast. He was still lying on the floor. I looked out my watch; he'd been out for nine hours. That was a long time. Too long. I poked him in the chest, and pinched the inside of his arm. He didn't even twitch. I held my fingers under his nose and waited for a breath. And waited… and waited… Jesus. JE-sus. Shit. What the hell had I done wrong? I hit his chest a couple times, and felt his pulse. Or lack thereof. Oh god, oh god oh god. I stood up, looking for a phone amid the mess that is our sitting room. I didn't know what to do. All right. Don't panic. You can panic soon… I heard movement behind me. I turned around to see Sherlock standing, leaning against the wall, and laughing his weird, silent laugh. I advanced and looked at him in disbelief. Come on. He knew better then that. He had to know better then _that._

"Sherlock, what the HELL was that?" He smiled at me.

"Revenge. For god's sake, John, if you're going to inject me with morphine, you could ask. I like morphine."

"Sherlock…"

"That, however, was uncalled for. Sneaking up behind me like some kind of assassin. I would have gone to bed had you just asked." I snorted at the absurdity of the statement and clocked him in the face. He stumbled backwards, taken by surprise. He looked at me confused.

"What was that for?" I spoke in the flustered sort of way I can't help getting when I'm upset.

"You almost gave me a fucking heart attack, you… stupid…" he raised his eyebrows, making me madder. "machine. You have to know not to do that to people. Oh, god." I sat down on the sofa. He sat down in the chair next to me and stared at my face, then looked me up and down.

"You are upset with me. You are shocked that I would worry you on purpose."

"Great deduction, Sherlock. Great job." We sat in silence for a moment.

"Aren't you going to ask how I did it? No pulse? That was impressive, right?"

"Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood to be impressed by you right now." He ignored me and bounced a tennis ball against the wall.

" If you position this at a certain angle, then it will obstruct blood flow to the arteries-"

"I don't bloody care."

"I've invented a solution, that, when inhaled, can increase oxygen levels in the blood for short periods of time, allowing you to breath less frequently-"

"Sherlock, I don't care." He stopped, scowling, and stalked of to his room.

Did he care? Was he sorry? I thought about how puzzled he seemed that I didn't laugh and listen to his scientific ventures. He didn't. No, actually, he cared. He just couldn't understand why it upset me to think I had bloody killed him. He said he was a sociopath. I say he had some form of Asperger's. Sally Donovan says he was a freak. It didn't matter in the end. When he was talking to me, on the phone, I could hear it in his voice. He didn't know why I should care when he jumped, but he knew I would, and he was sorry.


End file.
